


Back To Me

by ThePangolin



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint is always getting hurt, Coulson always worries, Deaf Character, Fluff, Hurt, Hydra, M/M, disaster Clint Barton, mother hen Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14286132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePangolin/pseuds/ThePangolin
Summary: Clint is a disaster magnet and Phil is always there to save the day (and provide some much-needed comforting).Or: the one where Clint tries to single-handedly stop a Hydra army.





	Back To Me

Clint didn't know how he was going to get out of this one. The firefight had been going on for over an hour, his ears would have been screaming at him had he not had the foresight to turn his hearing aids down to minimum at the first sign of a shootout and he barely had enough ammo to keep the advancing Hydra forces at bay. And he had been shot. Several times, in fact. That probably should have been his priority, would've certainly been Coulson's priority if he had been here, rather than off in Madripoor chasing some fabricated lead from an informant. He had taken a large task force with him in the hope of capturing some big names, and so the Helicarrier had been left woefully undermanned when Hydra unleashed their real plan, a raid on some prototype Starktech that they had been transferring to the new Avengers facility. The skeleton security teams had been gunned down or captured almost immediately, and it had only been the fact that Clint had been overlooked high in his sniper post that had spared him. Bullets whizzed past his ears, punching through the steel wall behind him like paper. As Clint is paused to reload his sweat-slicked hands fumbled with the pistol and it dropped to the floor. He watched, powerless, as it fell, clattered in a pool of his own blood and skidded away across the floor, firing off one last defiant shot as it came to rest six feet to his left, far beyond the cover that Director Hill’s large desk provided. He froze, staring down the cold barrel pointed just a fraction to his right, and internally cursed every deity that had banded together to give him such terrible luck.

Footsteps echoed on the metal floor as Hydra soldiers advanced towards him, firing a few cautious shots in his direction as a warning to stay down. Struggling valiantly to try and keep pressure on the half dozen gushing bullet holes that littered his body, Clint drew a small dagger from his ankle sheath and pulled in a heavy breath, wincing at even the possibility of more movement. “I’m sorry, Phil.” Clint breathed as he dragged his legs into position underneath him. “I tried my best. I guess that's what you get for leaving the fate of the world to a circus kid with a bow and arrow.” He shifted into a basic fighting stance as the tip of a polished jackboot appeared around the corner of the desk.

And then the world exploded.

Glass hurtled into the room, foot-thick shards slicing clean through the necks and limbs of several soldiers unlucky enough to be in their way. The huge observation window shattered, the atmosphere flooded out of the Helicarrier in a greedy, clawing rush that dragged chairs and bodies alike out into the open sky. Clint gulped at the remaining air and latched onto a table leg, groaning as his wounded left shoulder took the strain and a fresh pulse of blood began to ooze down his arm. Eyes tearing up with pain, he squinted towards what had been the window. Hovering outside, just beyond the mangled wreckage of the window, was a shield Quinjet, gun barrels cherry red with heat and smoking. There, perched on the open cargo ramp with his arm outstretched to Clint like a messiah, was Coulson. Lit from behind by the dying light of the day he looked utterly radiant, hair neatly combed, as ever, and not a single crease marring his grey suit. As the plane’s guns neutralized the few remaining soldiers Clint could have sworn he saw a smile flicker across Coulson’s maddening, perfect lips, a faint glimmer to his eyes that looked far too much like he was enjoying this.

Clint would have liked to have seen more, but by then he had fainted.

*****

When he came to he was lying in a hospital bed, soft white sheets enveloping him and fresh bandages covering his numerous wounds and scrapes. Huffing at the interruption from a very enjoyable dream involving Coulson and an early morning coffee date, Clint tried to curl back in on himself, but the movement of his stomach sent a knife of pain shooting through him and he jerked up, gasping with shock. He grunted and flailed, trying his groggy best to escape the unfamiliar bed before two strong, familiar hands caught him and held him down until the panic ebbed away and he stilled. Glancing up blearily, he found himself face-to-face with Coulson. A few extra worry lines were smattered across his face, his eyelids purpled from lack of sleep, but those striking grey eyes were as soft as ever as they settled on Clint. Clint wished he could reach out and kiss him, but those hands held him firmly in place and the few inches between them might as well have been miles. 

“How are you feeling?” Coulson asked, his voice rough.

Clint shifted and grimaced, the pain quickly returning to his broken body. “I've been shot before. Can't say it's getting any more fun.” He glanced up at Coulson, searching for any sign that his addled mind was hallucinating his lover. “What’re you doing here?”

“I came to see you. You've been out cold for three days, I was worried.”

“I mean here in New York. Aren't you supposed to be off in Madripoor hunting down terrorists?”

To an untrained observer Coulson's face may have seemed as passive as ever, but to Clint the minute tightening of his mouth spoke volumes. “It was a dead end. Turns out Hydra had got to Wilson and he was feeding us false intel. The moment we got there I knew something wasn’t right. It took me a while to convince Hill to abandon the mission and turn back, but it turns out coming back from the dead does wonders for your status.” Coulson huffed at his own joke and came to perch on the bed next to Clint, careful to avoid the IV lines trailing from his arm. “And the first thing I find when I get back is my partner half bled out on the main deck.” A scarred hand snaked around the back of Clint's neck to grasp reassuringly at the soft hairs there. “You don't always have to pay the hero, you know, Clint. You could have been killed before we got to you.”  
“I’m not playing the hero, Phil, just doing what anyone else would have done.” He flashed a reassuring smile, then immediately regretted it as a stab of pain shot through his jaw. “I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself.”

“Hmm.” Coulson seemed far from convinced, his face creasing into a small frown as he ran his hands lightly over the dressings covering most of Clint's chest. Small pink stains had begun to blossom on the pristine white cotton. Clint prodded one curiously and then quickly doubled over as a wave of pain and nausea coursed through him. Coulson waited patiently as he wheezed and whimpered, an eyebrow raised in amusement. As the room gradually stopped spinning Clint loosened his grip on Coulson’s sleeve and turned to the older man, his eyes still watering slightly with pain.

“Phil, I'm ok. You came back and I'm not dead. You know me, it'll take more than a few dozen fascists to keep me down.”

Coulson ran his eyes slowly up and down Clint, taking in his scars, the tanned skin peeking out from beneath his bandages, his soft, almost fluffy blonde hair (clean and combed, for once) sticking out at all angles from his scalp. Then in one smooth motion he swept Clint forward into a kiss, slipping his tongue past the younger man’s teeth in an easy claim. Clint melted into the touch before Phil tugged lightly at his hair, prompting him to break the kiss for a moment and duck his head.  
“Just try to take care of yourself, ok?”  
Clint hummed in response, too high on meditation and endorphins to form any actual words. Coulson chuckled and dipped his head forwards once more, pressing their lips together firmly as he rubbed slow circles on the younger man’s cheek. Safe and warm in his lovers arms, Clint felt the calmness of their own little bubble wash over him, rendering everything but the brush of lips and occasional swipe of a tongue unimportant. Coulson was here again, and nothing in the world could take that away from him.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is my first ever fic that I've posted. I hope you all like it!
> 
> If you liked it, let me know! If you didn't, constructive criticism would be great. Comments are the caffine that fuels my late-night writing binges.


End file.
